


Legendary Legacy

by endlessnepenthe



Series: We're Both a Little Broken, But Together We'll Fill In The Cracks [10]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Endgame, Sad Peter Parker, Sleepy Cuddles, at least not fully, honestly I think everyone has seen Endgame by now, kind of?, what really should have happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-08-20 19:55:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20233480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: A legacy is something you leave behind — planting seeds in a garden you never have the opportunity of seeing. It’s the summary of your actions, the mark you left on the world.He said no more surprises, but maybe… maybe there’s just one last one.After all, legends never die, right?





	1. We Won, Mr. Stark

_ Lush green trees. Rolling hills. Desolate space. Flat, constant light. No clouds, no sun, no moon, no stars. Absolute silence. Not a single thing stirs. _

_ Except a child, far too young — so young he hasn’t yet experienced the way the high pitch of his voice will lower and deepen with time — to be left alone in any wilderness like this one. He’s beautiful, with smooth pale skin flushed a light healthy pink, wide sweet eyes alight with pure innocent curiosity. And he’s chasing something, as fast as his little legs can carry him. _

_ The only other thing moving in this empty barren land: a fox — only marginally larger than a housecat, small in size but swift. It’s a gorgeous russet, the colour deep and even along its slim body, save the white tips on the ears and tail. And it’s running with its fluffy tail swishing through the air, as deliberate with its direction as something with a destination. _

_ The child doesn’t know why he’s chasing the fox. He doesn’t know why the fox is running, where it’s going. But the child knows his only chance lies with catching it. Yet he doesn’t want to, knows he’s powerless against a gracefully determined creature that possessed much more speed, agility, and intelligence; but he can’t leave it be, because somehow — for a reason his foolishly delicate young mind couldn’t comprehend yet — the fox meant something _ important _ to the child. _

_ So they run on; one towards an unknown goal, the other chasing with the intent to _ stop. _ The fox never pauses, tiny paws carrying it onward. The child never loses his breath, never falls despite constantly tripping over his own feet, never feels gravity or exhaustion weighing down on his fragile limbs. Around them, the landscape changes — the farther they run, the more the trees around them thin out. They start dying, vibrant green leaves shrivelling and tree branches drying out like grapes left directly under the sun’s rays, as the light around them dims like clouds have moved to obstruct the sun. _

Turn back, _ the very space around them seems to warn. But neither of them stop. _

_ Desperate, the child runs faster; but so does the fox. All around them is the light of dusk and empty crumbling pillars of long dead trees. Now, he’s chasing a mere white blur that bobs and weaves, bright in the growing dark. _

He inhales a deeper breath when he wakes, sharp but soft, and blinks sleepy half lidded eyes in the gentle darkness of the room. Ethereal silver light of the moon bleeds through the semi opaque huge ceiling to floor glass windows, never allowing the room to be plunged into absolute darkness that left the eyes blind and useless. His legs are tangled hopelessly, the soft cotton sheets twisted around his sprawled body. The downy hairs on his nape are sticking to his neck, his skin tacky with a faint hint of sweat.

What had woken him? Peter’s not sure, but he knows he’s probably had a dream. Or a nightmare. But the more he struggles to remember what it might have been about, the more it slips between his fingers like fine grains of sand. He frowns at the ceiling in drowsy concentration, and—

_ Round dark chocolate coloured eyes of an intelligent animal. Thin veins of electric blue runs through the brown at random intervals — excitable lightning, immeasurable power. _

Peter kicks halfheartedly at the sheets until he can squirm his legs free, twisting his body into a smooth roll over the side of the bed. He pauses to tug on a pair of socks and his shoes, pawing absently at his sleep heavy eyes. The hoodie he has on is wonderfully thick, trapping all the warmth his body had accumulated during sleep; Peter curls his fingers into the cuffs that stretched down past his knuckles with a tiny fond scrunch of his nose.

Half asleep but awake enough to walk without stumbling, Peter steps into the elevator, mumbling a quiet _ kitchen, please. _ He yawns widely as he pours himself a glass of cold orange juice straight from the fridge, gulping down the whole thing in a single breath. Diligent, Peter thoroughly rinses out the glass before setting it upside down on the metal dish rack next to the sink, now significantly more awake.

He knows he should go back to sleep. But when Peter exits the elevator again, he finds he’s requested the opposite direction to his room. Not thinking too much of it — it’s not unusual for him to be down here at this hour, anyway — Peter presses his right palm to the panel of glass next to the reinforced steel door. The blue outline of his hand blinks green before fading, and the lock disengages with a hiss of heavy machinery.

When Peter wanders in, the giant cavernous space is empty. The bots are silent and motionless in their designated corner, the pot in the machine holds not a single trace of coffee, and all the counters are free of any work in progress projects. There’s no hint of the owner of this space.

And that’s good — he’s sleeping, then.

That’s very good.

Peter allows a small happy smile to curve his lips as he steps into the elevator for the third time in this single night.

In no hurry, he leisurely paces down the hall, passing by his own room. Quietly, Peter slips in, silently shutting the door behind him. But this bedroom is as abandoned as the lab.

For a long minute, Peter stands with his brows furrowed.

“...Mr. Stark?”

The slightly dusty lab.

_ We won, Mr. Stark. _

The empty bed, perfectly made sheets like no one had been there for a long time.

_ You did it, sir; we won. _

The feeling of a heavy loss sitting in his heart.

_ I’m sorry… Tony. _

Peter’s hands ball into fists around the cuffs of a hoodie that’s not his own. Eyes wide, he looks down.

_ His movements are slow and sloppy as he drags it on over his head. He doesn’t bother fixing his disheveled hair when it’s tousled by the hoodie. _

_ MIT _ glares up at Peter almost accusingly from his chest.

_ Inhaling shakily, he crawls into bed and allows the memory of laughing deep brown eyes drag him into slumber. _

Closing his eyes, Peter wraps his arms around himself and breathes a soft sob, a tear slipping down his cheek.

_ And then there’s nothing but silence and heavy oppressive darkness. The child stumbles to a stop, turning his head this way and that, blindly hoping to see anything. But there’s nothing to see; the dark is absolute. _

_ Please come back. _


	2. Earth's Best Defender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never personally used KT before, so please do read that part with a grain of salt; KT should be used with the guidance of someone professional, please do not rush into it and tape yourself up without knowledge on what you might do to your muscles!

“Kid?”

Peter chokes on a gasp. He doesn’t dare move, lest whatever dream he’s having tears apart at the seams.

“What’re you doing up?”

But the voice is unmistakable: familiar deep velvet, rich and smooth. Warm. It's going home after a long exhausting day and finally being able to relax. And he has to make sure that it’s real; that he isn’t building his hopes up high as a skyscraper just to have them shattered into a billion tiny miserable pieces. So Peter slowly raises his head and blinks open blurry wet eyes, barely daring to breathe. To hope.

Hot scented steam dissipates into the room from the open bathroom door behind a fresh-out-of-the-shower Tony Stark, his upper body bare and loose black sweatpants sitting low on his slim hips. He’s using the towel around his neck to scrub lazily at his damp hair, dark strands falling haphazardly over his forehead, and Peter can’t believe his eyes. It couldn’t be real. There’s no way.

But this Tony has the arc reactor scar on his chest, ghostly white and faded with time, a perfect circle that’s barely there. And his arm — his right arm, the one that Tony had snapped with — is covered with jagged paths that travel in different directions and intersect randomly, like lightning had been running just under his skin and left its mark. They’re beautiful, in a horribly morbid way.

Peter hears his own breath hitch audibly as Tony tilts his head to one side, soft brown eyes gentle and inquisitive. Then Peter’s lowering his eyes to the floor and blinking rapidly against the flood of fresh tears.

“Hey,” Tony breathes, approaching cautiously like Peter’s a wounded and cornered animal, “Pete, it’s me.”

Sniffling, Peter shakes his head, fast and desperate. He can’t. It’s not possible.

The sharp clean scent of a shampoo that probably has a ridiculous name like _ Frozen Glacier _— or something of the sort — intensifies. Strong elegant fingers curl gently around Peter’s wrist, warm and solid and undeniably _ real. _

“See? It’s really me, I’m here,” Tony murmurs.

With a whimper, Peter throws his arms around Tony, squeezing hard enough for Tony to huff a faint sound of discomfort. Then Tony’s shifting to hook his chin over Peter’s shoulder and slot them together like perfect puzzle pieces, rubbing soothing circles on Peter’s back as the teenager sobs into the damp towel.

“Okay, okay. You’re alright,” Tony coos, patting the space between Peter’s shoulder blades. “Hey, alright. You okay, kiddo?”

“Mm.” Peter shuffles back, nodding determinedly and swiping at his cheeks.

“Excellent. Now, shut off the waterworks and get to sleep, yeah? Kiddies like you need their 8 hours.”

Peter sniffs a wet laugh. Smiling softly, Tony gently wipes at the tears gleaming on Peter’s face with the towel, affectionately tucking a curl of Peter’s hair behind his ear.

“Okay Spiderbaby, time for bed.” Tony frowns when Peter doesn’t move, standing still and nervously twisting his fingers together with the obvious intention of stalling for time. “What’s— Oh, hold on. Help me tape up my arm?”

Relieved for the distraction, Peter nods mutely. He follows Tony to the bed, perching obediently on the edge while Tony rummages in the bedside cabinet. With a soft triumphant noise, Tony presents Peter with a bright blue roll.

Turning it around in his hands, Peter frowns. It’s made of what looks and feels to be the same breathable fabric as bandages. Or gauze. How is this tape, and why did Tony want to use it on his arm?

No doubt picking up on Peter’s confusion, Tony laughs. “‘s not _ tape _ tape. KT — kinesiology tape — is supposed to support and relieve muscle pain, when used properly. They worked magic on my destroyed arm — literally — but it’s still on track for recovery and apparently I can’t risk sleeping on it wrong, so.” He waves a dismissive hand at the tape cradled in Peter’s hands. “Not my first time using, believe it or not. I’ll tell you where to put it.”

Oddly enough for Peter, it’s nearly exactly the same process as laying down adhesive tape or even bandages: stick the edge of the tape on one end, line it up, run your hand along the length to make sure it follows the path it’s meant to, and then finally smooth it down. Peter carefully presses the pre-cut strips to Tony’s skin with his instruction — around the bone of his shoulder, one right over top with his arm extended straight; crisscrossing around his elbow and down the underside of his arm; one strip straight down his forearm over the top of his hand, another in a controlled spiral over it; even one around the back of his shoulder, ending just over his shoulder blade.

When Peter’s finished, Tony flexes his neon blue striped arm, rotating and stretching out the limb to test his range of mobility with the thick tape on.

“Perfect; nice work, kid. Now c’mon, it’s past your bedtime.”

But Peter can’t get himself to move; he sits with his shoulders hunched and one leg folded up on the bed, a position he’d used to better reach Tony’s arm. The short cardboard roll — now empty — that had given the tape structure and prevented it from creasing is cradled limply in one of his hands. His fingers tingle with the lingering warmth from Tony’s shower heated skin. Every muscle in his body rebels against the very idea of leaving.

“Kiddo…? You okay over there?”

_ Okay Peter, now or never. _

“Mr. Stark—”

What does he say next? What _ could _ he say?

“—hope you’re not planning to sleep sitting up like that.”

_ What? _

The cardboard tube slips from Peter’s fingers, rolling around on the floor before losing momentum and falling onto its side. He’s only dimly aware of his mouth being open as he gapes at Tony, who is lounging against his pillows like a content cat. Somehow, without Peter noticing, Tony’s put on one of his usual black sleeveless tops.

“—give you the _ worst _ aches no matter how young you are, I definitely don’t recommend—” Tony waves a lazy hand when Peter bends over. “—don’t worry ‘bout it, just leave it there—”

“Okay,” Peter mumbles, sitting back up.

“—you reacted like _ that _ seeing me earlier and you think I’m— Really? Wow.” Tony finishes his rant with a disbelieving huff.

Peter attempts a laugh; it’s a weak sound. Hollow, empty. “I—” He sniffs aggressively, blinking hard. “I thought you were d—” A tear streaks down his face, dropping onto his fisted hands. “You were gone.”

Not that Peter’s not absolutely ecstatic to have Tony alive and well, but… His heart had stopped. He wasn’t breathing. Peter knows — the exact moment his hero’s heart had stuttered to a halt, the exact moment his lungs had taken their last breath and simply failed to take another — because he’d _ heard. _ And that’s— That’s not something you come back from.

“Hey, hey. How about you come over here first; and I’ll tell you what happened,” Tony suggests, soft and coaxing.

Not bothering to wipe at the wet tracks on his cheeks, Peter silently kicks his shoes off, then bends over to slip his feet out of his socks. He joins Tony under the comforter, tucking his legs under himself as he settles down a solid distance away from Tony. Not out of suspicion that it might be a stranger playing Tony Stark in his bed, but out of fear that Peter might still be dreaming. Sure Tony felt solid and warm under his hands. But Peter’s had his fair share of dreams — he’s wished, screamed, prayed, _ dreamed, _ for the universe to return Tony, because Tony didn’t deserve something so cruel as having to leave when he’s finally achieved something near _ a good life _— so vivid and so _ real _ that waking up felt like the dream.

Tony’s face falls a bit at the deliberate space between them but he doesn’t comment, just clears his throat and leans back to get more comfortable. “Well. It was great, snapping away that stupid purple grape and his army. Didn’t feel so nice though, those stones; too much power. And next thing I knew, I was in some random wasteland. Kind of like a desert, all dry and empty.”

Peter’s brows furrow as he digests the information.

“Then… Guess whatever it was that put me there didn’t want me anymore, spat me out.” He shrugs. “Helen, the little Wakanda princess, and the wizard — Stephen — used the Cradle and some cool tech and _ magic _ to, I don’t know, fix me up. Said they couldn’t get rid of these—” Tony gestures to the lightning scars running just under his skin. “—though, that I’m lucky it was mostly a flesh wound — none of my nerves were too damaged. It was,” his nose crinkles with a tiny thoughtful sniff, _ “bad, _ kiddo. Hurt like hell. Though I guess you already knew that.”

Boy, did Peter know. It’d haunted him every time he’d closed his eyes for a whole day after the fact: Tony’s warm brown eyes, glazed and unfocused with his agony; the way he’d tried to talk but couldn’t say anything beyond a few whispered words, pain filled gaze sorrowful and desperate; his arm scorched and torn and limp at his side. Peter knew all the others close enough could hear the smooth hum of the arc reactor, could hear the jarring silence when it had stopped. But not one of them would know the way Peter’s chest physically hurt when he no longer heard the familiar strong thump of Tony’s heart.

“Would’ve come back earlier, but they insisted I take a few days; couldn’t stand it after 48 hours — y’know me — so I bugged Stephen ‘til he did his portal thing for me.”

Peter sniffles, fidgeting with his sleeve. “Did it hurt?”

“What, the good doctors poking at my messed up arm? No, actually; they gave me the good stuff.”

“Oh. That's— That’s good.”

_ “Ugh, _ you’re killing me here,” Tony gripes, sitting up with a sigh. “C’mon.” He spreads his arms.

“Is this—”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Get over here before I change my mind.”

What could Peter do — say no?

_ “Holy cow; you will not believe what’s been going on.” _

_ Peter helps Tony up, both hands grasping at one of Tony’s arms. Tony openly stares with his mouth open as Peter rambles on. _

_ “Do you remember when we were in space? And I got all dusty? And I must’ve passed out because I woke up and you were gone but Doctor Strange was there, right—” _

_ Tony exhales, sharp and sudden, brows furrowing. _

Expression soft and affectionate, Tony watches Peter scoot closer with the energy and eagerness of a puppy that had been left home alone for the day.

_ “—and he was like ‘it’s been five years; c’mon, they need us,’ and then he started doing the yellow sparkly thing that he does all the time—” _

_ Peter’s waving an arm through the air in an exaggerated imitation and Tony’s murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like “hold me” as he stumbles across the distance between them. _

_ “—and— What’re you doing—” _

_ Tony throws his arms around Peter. Peter gasps in shock, arms still held aloft in the air. _

Peter carefully folds his arms around Tony’s torso, gentle but firm. He doesn’t want to accidentally hug with his super enhanced strength and crack a few of Tony’s ribs.

_ “Oh,” Peter sighs as he registered what had happened, pressing his hands to Tony’s back. _

_ Tony squashes his cheek against Peter’s, patting Peter’s back once and squeezing as close as physically possible with the thick protective armours they were wearing between them. _

_ For Peter, at that time, it had only been what seemed like a heartbeat since he’d last seen Tony — his mind couldn’t understand why Tony was looking at him like a miracle had occurred and he’d come back to life, arms clutching at him so desperately as if he’d disappear again. But now, he realizes that for Tony, it had been five _ years _ since he’d last seen Peter, and he essentially _ had _ come back to life. _

Without a single moment of hesitation, Tony reciprocates. Peter finds himself caged in strong arms, pressed to a firm chest that distinctly lacked an arc reactor in the center. He can feel Tony’s heart beating, the way his rib cage expanded with each new — full! Not the pitiful half breaths Tony could manage with part of his sternum occupied when he’d had the arc reactor in his chest — breath he took, and Peter would shed happy tears if he had any left. But he’s exhausted and his tear ducts seem to have given up on producing any more tears, so instead Peter sighs, relaxed and content, and lightly squeezes Tony back, mumbling his next words into the warm skin at Tony’s neck.

_ “Oh, this is nice.” _ “Oh, this is nice.”

Tony hums a quietly amused sound, turning his head to plant a kiss — more of a quick peck, really — on the side of Peter’s head. He playfully ruffles Peter’s unruly curls, breathing a soft fond laugh at Peter’s indignant noise of complaint. When Tony releases Peter in favour of flopping back against the pillows with a wide yawn, wiggling restlessly until he’s satisfied and comfortable, Peter follows suit.

Curling up on his side, Peter drapes an arm over Tony’s ribs. Tony’s response is to settle an arm on his waist, one hand resting flat against Peter’s stomach. They lay still in drowsy silence for a minute, heart rate and breathing matching up to the same slow pace.

“Good to have you back, kid,” Tony mumbled sleepily. _ I missed you, _ he doesn’t need to say.

“You too, Mis’er Stark.” _ I missed you too. _

Peter’s nearly asleep when he hears Tony’s voice again, words thick and slurred with sleep.

“How d’you feel about meetin’ Thor?”


	3. As You Can See: Not Dead

A streak of red rockets through the sky, landing heavily on the balcony of Tony’s floor with a dramatic clap of thunder that is extremely out of place with the clear sunny sky. Crimson cape waving in the breeze, Thor straightens out of his semi crouch looking every bit like the god he is; although he is just a little more inconspicuous without his long hair. Stepping delicately out of the twin indents he’d left in the thick concrete, Thor makes for the door, Mjolnir dangling from one hand.

“Hey Pointbreak,” Tony chirps cheerfully from inside his Iron Man suit. He’s standing casually next to Peter, who is frozen with his mouth open, eyes wide.

Thor blinks and frowns, turning to Peter. “Is this supposed to be some form of a jest? It is not funny.”

Peter only manages a soft squeak, to Thor’s great confusion.

The gleaming nanoparticles encasing Tony flow back into the triangular housing unit in the center of his chest. Smirking, he twitches his fingers in a dainty wave.

For a moment, Thor’s expression is blank. And then the biggest grin is spreading across his face. “Tony,” he booms happily, reaching over to clap Tony on the back; Tony stumbles a little from the force.

“Yep. Long story short, not dead— You don’t seem too surprised. By the way, you’re looking good, buddy.”

“Yes,” Thor agrees, glancing down at himself with faint approval in his eyes. “I have been… busy, assisting the new Queen of Asgard with our people.” He bends over to gently set Mjolnir on the floor. “It seems some stories need not end with tragedy.”

Tony’s lips twitch upward. His expression shouts _ Case in point: me. _

But Thor doesn’t seem to be referencing Tony. He’s slowly reaching for the loops of glossy black coiled around his upper arm, carefully coaxing it to unravel. With distinctly signature deadly grace, the snake slides onto Thor’s open palm, lifting its head to stare at Tony. The end of its tail curls loosely around Thor’s wrist.

“I didn’t know you owned a snake,” Tony says, eyeing it with curiosity.

“I don’t,” Thor remarks, turning his hand vertical in one swift move; the snake plummets toward the floor with an angry hiss.

Peter gasps sharply and Tony’s eyebrows shoot skyward, both gawking at Thor in complete disbelief.

Before the snake could hit the ground, a ring of bright poisonous green loops around its powerful body, reflecting off smooth midnight scales. The ring slides up, the snake expanding and morphing where the green had passed. First to emerge is dark polished leather dress shoes, followed by a perfectly tailored onyx suit over a lithe slender body. Then there is no snake at all; a familiar face with pale unblemished skin and pitch black shoulder length hair grins, green eyes full of mischief.

“...Loki.”

The grin widens. “Anthony, son of Stark.”

“Wow. We all thought you…”

Loki spreads his arms with a dramatic flourish. “As you can see — I’m as dead as you are.”

“Very funny.”

“You do not seem very amused,” Thor observes, voice bewildered.

“I was being sarcastic—”

“And who is this,” Loki interrupts. “I was not aware you had a son.”

“He’s not literally—”

“H-Hi I’m— I’m Peter.”

“A great pleasure to meet you, son of Stark,” Thor rumbles over Tony’s disgruntled _ Okay, fine, I’m not here, don’t listen to me _ grumble, holding out a large hand.

Peter obediently shakes Thor’s hand, so starstruck Tony could practically see the thought _ I’m never going to wash this hand ever again _ as a blaring neon sign above his head.

“Interesting,” Loki purrs, watching Peter intently like a snake preparing to strike.

“Don’t you dare touch him,” Tony growls. “Hey, kid — just wondering — how come you weren’t like _ this _ when you met me?”

“I was; when I first met you.” Peter shrugs. “Was too young to really know who you were, but I was seriously obsessed with Iron Man. I still have that dumb plastic mask— still remember you saying _ ‘nice work, kid’ _ and flying away.”

Tony's heart skips a beat. “That… It was you?”


End file.
